


To Tell the Truth

by Majela



Series: Truth or Consequences [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Declarations Of Love, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post-His Last Vow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-21
Updated: 2014-04-21
Packaged: 2018-01-20 07:01:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1501157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Majela/pseuds/Majela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sherlock. Do you remember that time you made me miss a whole Wednesday once? Hmm? Cause I don't."</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Tell the Truth

“What the hell- how did you find that?”

“I was...dusting.”

“Don't lie to me, John. You would have had to search _thoroughly_ to find that.”

*****

Which wasn't exactly true. Johnsearched the flat top to bottom six months ago, but found nothing except Sherlock's stash of cigarettes. After a very clear and serious discussion with Sherlock on the matter of narcotics, he gave up looking. Sherlock had probably disposed of everything long ago.

His discovery last week of the mysterious vial, hidden inside the skull on the mantelpiece, was purely by accident. He had been wondering who the skull belonged to, thinking perhaps it was fake, some macabre sort of piggy bank. After all, if it was real, surely it was being missed ? As John tried not to think of a headless skeleton knocking on the front door of 221B Baker Street, he turned it over. No plastic plug in the bottom, just a normal hole where the spinal column entered the cranial cavity long ago, and – what was this?

A glass vial containing an amber liquid was taped to the inside of the parietal bone. Liquid heroin? Glass vials were not the usual packaging for drug dealers, but - oh. Sherlock was more than capable of concocting his own poison, wasn't he?

The thought made John so angry, so fast, he was about to throw the skull across the room when an unwelcome thought - _explosive !_ \- caused him to set it back on the mantelpiece, carefully.

No, Sherlock wasn't that stupid.

Smoke bomb? He imagines Sherlock throwing the skull at Moriarty's feet, disappearing in a great swirl of coat and smoke.

Much more likely, the dramatic tosser.

Damn it. It was probably drugs. Was this Sherlock's idea of a joke? A mind altering substance, hidden inside a mindless skull?

What if it wasn't for personal use?

John had never asked Sherlock about that missing Wednesday, and that was rather alarming, wasn't it? That he'd been shocked for all of ten seconds and then moved right on. Of course it was his wedding day and the timing for further inquiry was not ideal, but then he just seemed to absorb it like all the other circumstances that most flatmates would find shockingly upsetting, and...

A little revenge was in order.

*****

"You searched the flat. You were checking up on me.”

“No. Although apparently I have to now."

"You're as bad as Lestrade with his warrantless drug busts. God! I am _clean,_ John."

“Sherlock, I live here. I don't need a bloody warrant. I can consent to a search of my own flat.”

Even so, John feels a need to justify his actions, if only to himself.

*****

The truth is, as his appreciation for Sherlock's uncanny abilities has grown over the years, so has his worry.

Sherlock approaches criminal investigation through the ocular lens of science, magnified by a creepy ability to crawl inside one's head. The only way to advance the science of deduction, as he calls it, is with competent investigation of the most unique and well thought out criminal acts. To truly understand criminals, one must wander the dark woods of a man's mind, explore the paths less traveled. John has seen Sherlock get lost on those pathways sometimes, not coming out of the forest for days.

The moodiness, the silence, the body parts he can live with, but he will not abide Sherlock's experiments with reality. John refuses to debate why one opiate is legal and not another. He is Sherlock's doctor, his friend, and as a condition of moving back in, they must have an accord.

He knows this agreement is tenuous. John has treated many addicts who will say anything to get what they want. Sherlock wanted John to move back in with him. Did that mean John was Sherlock's addiction?

No, John only wishes that were true. He likes to be needed. But Sherlock can do fine without him, had done so in fact for two years, when he left John behind.

*****

John tucks the vial into his coat pocket and moves to the top of the stairs. He looks quickly to confirm Mrs. Hudson's door is shut before he pivots to face Sherlock.  

“So. How long has it been there?"

Sherlock really doesn't want to answer questions.

_Didn't ask me if it was heroin. Had it tested already then. Molly._

“You don't even know what it is, John."

“True," replies John calmly. “I had a theory – but no, suppose that theory's been disproven now. After all, you are still standing there."

A flicker of surprise, then Sherlock prowls toward John, who holds fast.

“What did you do with it?”

“I borrowed it. For an experiment.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes. “What kind of experiment?”

“Perhaps I should have asked. Any known side effects?”

That stops him dead in his tracks.

A second later Sherlock points a ridiculously long finger at John.

“The tea! You put it in my tea!"

*****

Earlier that morning.

Sherlock sat down for breakfast at 7:05, not hungry, annoyed at having to get up at all. They had an appointment with the magistrate at 9:00. John made tea, as usual, serving Sherlock first. John stirred in two spoonfuls of sugar for Sherlock. He did not add anything else... was it already in the cup? How did he miss that ?! A bit distracted perhaps, mind occupied with creating excuses to get out of the appointment, it wasn't like he was under subpoena or anything.

Mostly, though, Sherlock concluded, he had simply not been looking for it. John was not prone to poisoning people. Hmmm. 

He _had_  noticed something off about John's behavior that morning. John didn't take sugar, so he went to get a clean spoon, but– Sherlock forgot to do the dishes. Which was as annoying and predictable as John's forthcoming tirade, but when Sherlock raised one eyebrow to meet it, John said nothing. Not even a scowl. He just slid the empty cutlery drawer shut, sat down, and turned the spoon he had used for Sherlock around. John stirred the milk into his own cup using the straight end.

Sherlock remembers thinking that was very practical, he ought to commend John on the reduction of cutlery needing washing, something about turning a spoon at both ends...but he didn't, because John was not looking at him, just staring into his tea, and smiling. Why was he smiling?

Bastard.

*****

John was enjoying watching Sherlock deduce his actions from this morning. He'd had to stuff toast in his mouth to stop grinning, which Sherlock had obviously noticed, but that was fine, because a direct conversation on the subject was never going to be possible, and so John planned his attack accordingly. Distract him during breakfast, then ambush him when he was least expecting it.

Except the man was so bloody observant, all the time, that John had abandoned the idea of ambush and just thrust the accusation at him while Sherlock was tying his shoes.

Sherlock isn't going down easy though. He provides no information, verbal or physical, as to what is in the vial. Much like setting off the fire alarm in Irene Adler's residence, John had hoped Sherlock would reflexively look at whatever body part was most affected by the unknown substance. John's medical training could translate that information; hallucinogen, steroid, sedative, who knows. The lab had not been able to identify it.

Molly said it could be a new designer drug. Why don't you just ask him? she said.

John did not tell her where he found it, that the nature of its concealment meant Sherlock was going to deny its existence even if John shoved it right up his nose.

Sherlock looks ready to push John down the stairs. John reconsiders his position in the doorway, and moves behind his chair for cover.

“What possessed you!"

“Sherlock. Do you remember that time you made me miss a whole Wednesday once? Hmm? Cause I don't."

That satisfactorily takes some of the accusation out of Sherlock's pointing finger, which drops slightly. 

“But I do remember you flipping that fact into the air on my wedding day, and wondering when the hell that ever happened. _Without_ my consent. I don't remember signing any type of waiver before being used as a guinea pig for your... liquid of lullaby... or whatever you call it. What did you drug me with, eh, Sherlock ?"

“John. I am a graduate chemist who takes proper precautions, and, and...you were never in danger."

John laughs out loud. As if that could ever be true, living with Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock growls, “You, John, right now, you have _no idea_ what you're playing with.”

“True. As evidenced by the fact you're still stubbornly vertical. Or perhaps it is just righteous indignation holding you up ?"

“Ah, very funny, tit for tat, and all that. But it was for a case -"

“Naturally.”

" - I monitored your heart rate, your respiration, you were completely fine! In fact, when you woke up, you said it was the best sleep you'd had in years! ”

“You're not seriously suggesting you did me a favor.”

“No! No, it wasn't about _you,_ John. I needed to test a theory and – well- it was unlikely you would agree, therefore- ”

"You took advantage. Of my proximity.”

Sherlock is making funny exasperated noises.   

“You _know_ me John! I am meticulous in my methods, both deductive and scientific, which require validation, and the results, well, they confirmed what I suspected all along, of course, but - her lawyer advised her to plead guilty the next day !"

Sherlock stops talking, as that should end the matter. A positive result. Another case closed. 

The compact gunpowder expression on John's face is an attractive look, normally, when directed at others. During their first scowldown with Mycroft, Sherlock was rather pleased with himself for having discovered John Watson, human hand grenade. 

Is a thank you in order? Sherlock scans his social database. All John really did was lie there. It was Sherlock who did all the heavy lifting, both mental and physical. To test the defendant's assertion that she was unable to carry her husband up a flight of stairs all by herself, Sherlock had lugged John up and down the stairs sixteen times before Sherlock was satisfied it was in fact _very_ possible. It was Sherlock's back, not John's, which ached for a week afterwards. All John suffered was a few whonks on the head from the banister which were entirely consistent with a hangover. A half drunk bottle of scotch and empty tumbler on the floor beside the couch completed the drunken tableau. Still Life with John and Alcohol. He ought to have taken a picture.

Fine. _Insert smile here._ “Your assistance, John, as always, was invaluable.”

“Really? Wish I'd been there.”

“Jesus! All right, I'm sorry. You obviously feel I overstepped, but that so long ago -"

“Oh? When exactly? I seem to have forgotten.”

“Wednesday, February 24th, 2010.”

Christ. They'd only been flatmates a month.

“Do you remember the case I was working on when we first met, the one with the riding crop -”

“I don't care Sherlock. You've missed the point. I am not your personal lab monkey.”

Sherlock imagines a rhesus monkey splayed out on the couch, long hairy arm dangling to the floor, a string of drool-

“No. No, of course not.”

“And we've had this conversation before.“

Right. Sherlock had almost deleted Baskerville.

“Yes, but to be fair February 24th, 2010 predates said conversation on the matter, and so I believe this has already been ...settled.”

John sighs. “Of course. You're right.”

He shakes his head, at himself and his failure to see exactly how this was going to turn out. He should have known it from the first day they moved in together.

*****

The very first box Sherlock unpacked contained a microscope, various beakers, funnels, flasks, glass tubing, bunsen burner and a digital scale, all of which which he promptly assembled on the kitchen table. So Sherlock was a graduate chemist. Interesting. John supposed he could live with that, as he unpacked boring cups, dishes, cutlery and other kitchen-y things. The tea kettle looked at John uncertainly, perhaps it was in the wrong room?

Therefore John cannot profess shock or surprise at this situation. He knows Sherlock loves to experiment, and not in a mad professor or breaking bad kind of way. Sherlock acquired knowledge and used it to solve cases using clean incontrovertible chemical evidence. His objectives were mostly honorable. Lock up the guilty party, make the world a safer place! Who was John to begrudge him the petty inconvenience of one lost day, when some poor sod had lost his entire life? Sherlock Holmes was making London a better city, not just for John Watson, for everyone!

Although John was not convinced Sherlock truly saw things this way. He suspected Sherlock needed to relieve the pressure which built up in his head from the constant acquisition of facts, and liked to bash criminals over the head with his extruded intelligence.

*****

Now John is stewing that Sherlock has somehow made him feel petty, as though John is the one who needs to be put in a time out, to reflect carefully on his actions and ponder the error of his complaint.

But he has a point! John needs proof as well. There is an important deduction to be made from this little social experiment of his, and if he has to rub Sherlock's nose in it, well, he will. The work is important, yes, but this is important too. John will never demand equal billing for smarts, but if they are to be partners, he will have Common Bloody Courtesy.

“Sherlock. You think I drugged you, yeah?”

Sherlock grinds his jaw, his tongue trapped by uncertainty.

“I would never treat you like an experiment, Sherlock.”

John pulls the vial from his coat pocket and allows Sherlock to see it up close, the contents full, the seal unbroken.

Relief glides over Sherlock's face.

“Thank you, John.”   

He reaches for the vial.

“You can hand that over now.”

John is not moving.  

“Your point is made, John. I apologize.”

John slowly curls his fingers around the vial, and sighs deeply.

“Sherlock. I am your doctor, and I am your friend. You know I cannot return this to you until I know precisely what it is.”

“It is _not_ a narcotic!"

John rocks back and forth on his heels, waiting.

Sherlock's whole body begins to vibrate then, which brings a weird sort of calm to John. 

With a groan of frustration, Sherlock flops onto the couch in the most aggrieved manner possible.

John settles into his chair, reflecting on Sherlock's record for lying on the couch without talking, was it two days or three? Placing the vial on the armrest, he twines his fingers together in his lap, and pushes himself deeper into the seat cushions, shifting obviously so Sherlock can see him getting more comfortable, ready to break this record if required.

Sherlock ruffs his fingers through his hair in agitation, then starts talking to the ceiling.

“It has been there since the day I came back. I had a few supplies left over, such as ... that. It is a truth serum, of sorts."

“Sodium pentathol?” John is instantly captivated. He wondered how Sherlock had managed out there on his own.

“Better. Courtesy of Mycroft. Top secret. Even I don't know the precise ingredients. It is so new that criminals cannot get it on the black market, and to my knowledge no antidote exists. The effects are short lived, about half an hour. Long enough to extract useful information, and much more reliable. I wound my way through Moriarty's web with disguises and small items like that, easily concealed."

That makes sense. Still, he must have needed protection.

“Were you armed?”

“Occasionally. You have seen me disarm adversaries before.”

Yes, he had. Sherlock's reflexes were lightning quick. John recalls the last time he saw Sherlock in action, and a shiver surprises him between his shoulder blades.

“I am not averse to using physical force when required, John."

John squeezes his hands together tightly to suppress any more unbidden physical responses, and waits for him to continue. 

“However, I cannot abide torture. Too unreliable. I am no more likely to waterboard a terrorist than beat a confession from a felon at Scotland Yard.”

“Does Mycroft know you still have it ?”

"No."

“I see."

“I thought I might – _we_ might - need it. For a case. A card up our sleeve, if you will. But, we haven't, have we ?" Sherlock turns to face John with a knowing smile. "We work so well together."

John returns the smile sincerely. He does appreciate Sherlock's effort to emphasize the "we" of their partnership, even if it is overdone. However, there is no denying it. Since the headlines heralded Sherlock Holmes' triumphant return and reconciliation with Dr. John Watson, the news has been a heady deterrent to London's criminals. Intelligence reports suggest many have left London, getting out before the black market recession hits. Of those who chose to remain, several have already been relocated to Pentonville Prison, thanks to the combined efforts of Holmes and Watson.

Sherlock glides in before John's smile has a chance to fade, and reaches for the vial.

"I will just give it back to Mycroft, then, shall I?"

John has a good chuckle at that. If Sherlock had any doubts about John perhaps slipping a vengeful drop or two into his tea, if that was his idea of a little _test_ , well, he passed. Sherlock's ability to lie was as intact as the seal on that vial. No way Sherlock was going to return the serum to Mycroft, unless at gunpoint. John palms the vial, his meaning clear. _This conversation is not over_.

Sherlock collapses back onto the couch.

John wonders if it is possible to sprain eyeballs, Sherlock is trying so hard not to roll them.

“Does it really work?”

“It is remarkably effective. I could not have gleaned the necessary information so efficiently without it. Two years work could easily have been ten, trying to track down all Moriarty's operatives. It's not government approved, of course, more human trials need to be done. There have been some reported negative side effects. Mostly dead terrorists."

John is stunned to think that without this brown liquid he may not have seen Sherlock for _ten years_. Somehow, he ought to be thankful for its existence.

“I promise you, John, I have not drugged you with anything since we had our little chat.”

“Right. So. Just the one time.”

“Twice, actually, although Baskerville was just an attempt. But yes.”

Sherlock looks away then, not because he is lying, but to hide the fact that he is getting tired of apologizing. He knows he must, knows it is what John needs, these simple reassurances. But repeating it will not increase its efficacy. Unless Sherlock was insincere in the original offering, in which case repetition is a reminder he did not do it right the first time. Either way, it aggravates him. 

John is not asking for another apology, but he does appear to be waiting. For what ?

Finally, his voice comes out quiet, and a bit lost.

“How do I know, Sherlock? How can I trust you?”

Trust issues. Of course.

“I – yes...I'll admit I may have, in the past, when the science was foremost in my mind, I may have blurred some ethical boundaries, but-”

Sherlock stops talking. He observes John, tries to take in what he is not saying.

John is leant forward, elbows on knees, studying the carpet between his feet. Is he reconsidering his choice of flatmate again?  The anxiety in Sherlock amplifies. He just got John back in his life, they are partners once more, the cases are working, and - how can he make him stay?

Explanations and apologies are obviously insufficient.

"Oh! I know!" Sherlock has a brilliant solution. "I'll take the serum, you can ask me if I drugged you any other time, and I won't be able to lie to you! You'll have your answer, and the matter can _finally_ be behind us. Yes?”

Perfect. One drop and the whole thing will be over in half an hour.

John lifts his head to regard Sherlock thoughtfully, considering the offer. As his eyebrows calibrate upwards with each imagined question, Sherlock's mirror them in the opposite direction. 

 _Shit_. Thirty minutes. Time enough for John to ask him.... other questions. Sherlock can see the uncertain thoughts clunking forward in John's mind like steel wheels hitting ethical coins on the track, flattening them.

_no that wouldn't be right drugging my flatmate, chink, but he did make me miss a whole Wednesday once, chink, and I need to know, chink, my therapist says trust issues, chink, chink, but I need to know, chink, chink, chink, and I could ask him anything, anything at all ..._

John's eyes have already drifted off to the right, away from Sherlock and toward unexplored lands of inquiry.

As the possibilities gather speed Sherlock is physically bracing for impact, clenching his armrest and levitating slightly in his seat. He must halt this train of thought right now, before it takes John someplace they really can't come back from.

With incredible discipline Sherlock forces his body _not_ to lunge for the vial. Instead, he unfolds like a jackknife, and stabs himself into the sofa. The fingers of his left hand unfurl on the armrest, long palm facing upward, in a gesture of surrender.

“I'll take it, John, if you want me to. I know I have not been completely honest with you in the past ( _horrible unforgivable_ ) and you know I had my reasons, but if it still ( _hurts_ )... if you feel you cannot take me at my word, then I would like a chance to rebuild that. To earn the honour of your trust."

Sherlock has already prepared his answer for the first question. It will be about the fall, how Sherlock survived it. At one time he had actually looked forward to telling John this story, to hearing John say he was _Brilliant_ , once more. _Sherlock, you defeated Moriarty, you defeated death itself !_

How spectacularly Sherlock had misapprehended the effect of his resurrection on John Watson. If only he could rewind time and find another way off that roof. Certainly he wasn't going to bring it up, ever. John doesn't still want to punch him, does he? John did say he was forgiven, and - _You will tell me Sherlock won't you, how you did it ?_

The silence is interminable. 

John is staring at the vial, turning it over in his mind.

Sherlock cannot understand this hesitation. What else does John want to know? He really does not like the idea of John shining a torch into all the dark corners of his mind. Perhaps some guidance is required.

Sherlock clears his throat. “My parents always said honesty is the best policy.”

John gives him a sideways look. “Mine too.”

“Not the easiest, mind, but ultimately, the best. The truth will out, as they say.”

John spins the vial in his fingers, loaded with liquid potential. _Like the chamber of a revolver_ , thinks Sherlock.

“I may not have disclosed everything to you, John...but with good reason, I assure you.”

“I know, Sherlock.”

 _stupid stupid why did I hide it in the skull such an obvious place to look_   _! Why did John look there ? Drugs. Is that what he wants to know? About my drug addiction?_

“John, I know you will not abuse this trust I have placed in your hands, but I must advise you to...think carefully on what you want to know about me."

John pauses at that, and slowly sets the vial down on the armrest of his chair.

Sherlock is desperate enough to try telekinesis; holding his breath, he focuses so intently his eyebrows meet in the middle. The vial stubbornly refuses to roll off. 

“Fine! Shall there be full disclosure between us? Is that what is truly best? Because if I do this for you, John, then I have a question of my own that I need an answer to. Only one. But it is the price for _that_ " he says, pointing to the vial.

John wonders if there is some paralytic side effect to the serum. If by holding it, some of it has entered his body through osmosis, because suddenly he can't move, and he can't blink.

One question? What in the world does Sherlock want to ask him? That he doesn't already know?

*****

"Are you sure?” Sherlock asked.   

Six months earlier. They were sitting in Angelo's.

John had just asked if he could return to Baker Street. Mary was already back in the U.S. with her parents. _Until I figure things out_ , she had said.

"Yes, of course I'm sure. Why? Do you not want me to move back in?" John folds his napkin over and over into a tight red triangle. He is not quite prepared for Sherlock to say no.

“My door has always been open, John. Your chair is waiting. Don't ask stupid questions."

John smiles. Feeling grateful and insulted at the same time is hardly strange anymore. 

"What I mean is, are you sure you want to give up your own place, your own routine? You've been through a lot, John. Perhaps a normal life is what's best for you at the moment."

“Normal. As in...normal stuff in the fridge, no mad flatmate, no gun in my bedside drawer?”

Sherlock nods. “Plus, there is a shortage of competent general practitioners in London. I'm quite certain if you continued with your practice, you could make a comfortable living, get regular hours of sleep. You're hardly getting any younger."

"Right. Ta for that." 

John unfolds his napkin and smoothes it flat, considering. He can still keep up with Sherlock, his aim is true, he's saved Sherlock's arse on more than one occasion, and would continue to do so. Admittedly, though, it does take him longer to recover from their adventures. 

Age isn't really a factor though, when death and danger are always tempting you around the corner.

“Speaking of getting old, and the inevitable, I was thinking of working on my eulogy.”

Sherlock puzzles his head to one side. 

"Of improving it, I mean. I want people to tell really good stories at my funeral. I already know the best ones will be of our times together. I've time to add a few more, don't you think ?“

Sherlock grins. "Is that what we're doing, John ? Improving our eulogies?”

“Yeah. I think so.”

The consulting detective raises his wine glass. "To us, Doctor Watson. And our eulogies.”

 _Clink._  

John was the happiest he'd been in months.

*****

He's bluffing, thinks John. Trying to up the stakes so he will surrender the vial. Isn't he?

Fuck. This is ridiculous.

He walks over to Sherlock and places the vial into his open palm.

“I don't need this. There should be no need for chemical inducements between friends.”

The reminder is effective. _You're my best friend_. No one had said that to Sherlock Holmes before. It was unexpected, and carries certain responsibilities. Ones Sherlock never asked for. Ones he wants to live up to.

John is staring at the skull on the mantelpiece. He can see Sherlock in the mirror above it, sees him stand and approach, slowly raise one hand to hover at John's shoulder. John's breath catches in his throat. He wants this. He remembers when it was only his lonely reflection, before Sherlock came back. 

Being with Sherlock is never boring, but it is more than that. John is a better person with Sherlock, usually.

Except right now, John feels like a manipulative bastard.

“Sherlock, would you believe me if I said I've never lied to you?” 

Sherlock frowns, and drops his hand to his side. “Everyone lies, John.”

“Okay...maybe...true, but I can't think of any specific examples, can you? I mean, when it comes to us? Have I ever said an untrue word to you – the Great Sherlock Holmes ? What would be the point ? You'd see through it in an instant, probably before it fell out my mouth.”

Sherlock turns away, circles John twice, building speed, then storms to a stop six inches from John's face. There is lightning in his sea glass eyes.

“All right then, you've never uttered an untrue word. That is a fact, yes? Proud of it?”

John is jolted backwards. That is not what he meant.

“No, Sherlock – no my point is – _gah !_ \- we're friends, best friends -" and now his own anger reaches up from inside, rising from his feet to meet the strike of a descending Sherlock.

“Look! You don't have to drug me to get my _compliance,_ or my honesty! You just have to ask!" 

Sherlock retreats for a moment, then returns, hissing, "Well what do you call a refusal to acknowledge the facts then, John? A blind eye to the truth! Is that not a deception, another kind of lie?” His body is so close, John reflexively takes a step back, his feet shifting into the defensive stance of his military training.

The vial could crack, Sherlock's fist is clenched so tightly around it. He spins away, then stops in front of the mirror. "A lie to oneself. Ha! To thine own self be true, John.”

“ Wh-What ?! Oh, I see. Best defense is a good offence. Hardly original, Holmes."

Sherlock whirls at the use of his surname. John has never used it before.

“Indeed, Watson.” His voice is low thunder. “You know to what degree I hold the truth above all else. Where others cannot see it, refuse to see it, don't even want to _imagine_ the truth of what human beings are capable of doing to each other, I seek it out! What kind of detective would I be if I settled for half truths, jamming facts to fit into theories -” his voice cracks then, the accusation he was forming in his mind against John has somehow turned against him roaring _hypocrisy_ , his thoughts have gotten twisted around, he thought John could not truly love Mary, how could he after everything she did?

Sherlock scrambles to regain the higher ground, which is constantly shifting, his thoughts wildly off balance. Why is he thinking about Mary? Where the hell did that come from?

The question. The one question he wants to ask. The real reason he kept that vial. _Do you love me John_ ? He has waited so long, waited for John to come to him. _Do you love me_ ? It burns in him, like acid, like shame. He is a fool to even think it.

“To deceive oneself,” Sherlock snarls “- to hope for something to be true that is not, is an _unforgivable_ waste of time. The worst kind of lie."

Comprehension crashes into John, and leaves him reeling. This is about them, the buried truth.

He cannot believe the audacity.

“No, Sherlock, what you did to me, _that_  was the worst kind of lie! When you were gone, when I thought you were _dead_ , I wished I could say that better men than you had died. I've seen many men fall in war, Sherlock. I wanted to say there goes another soul, another friend, but better men than him have gone, and I hope he is at least at peace now. But you didn't even leave me that _shred_ of hope, that I might meet someone else, someone who could heal me, make me whole again."

John's whole body is shaking. “I tried, I really did. I reached out to Mary. To go on living, Sherlock. She said...she said she loved me."

And that wounds Sherlock to the core. Mary said what he did not. She was braver.

No, she was a liar.

He turns to face John, who is standing defeated, staring at some point mid distance between them on the floor.

“But she wasn't you. If you had just told me ..." John chokes back the rest. 

Sherlock wonders if the truth has come too late. If it is worth saying at all.

He has had nightmares, ones he will never share with John. Falling off the roof of St Bart's, he has horribly miscalculated how quickly John can move, and so John waits below, arms outstretched, ready to catch him. His smile reassuring - _It's okay, Sherlock, I've got you -_  calculating force equals mass times gravity he will surely kill John at this speed as he tries to stop his descent crawling up through the air that is when he wakes up, arms head and feet flown toward the ceiling and his guts punched into the mattress. Still in his head he lives the collision, feels John crushed under his weight, sees the bloody corona on the pavement, hears his last whisper - _It's okay, I got you_.

In this awful dream, Sherlock survives while his best friend dies beneath him. It usually takes half an hour to stop the shaking, repeating it was only a dream, just a dream.

Except it wasn't. It's precisely what he did to John.

Sherlock grips the back of John's chair and lowers himself into it carefully.         

John needs has to sit down too, in Sherlock's chair.  

How can anyone fix this?

“Ask me."

Soft, quiet. A plea for leniency.

“John. Ask me anything. I swear I will tell you anything you want to know." 

The air in 221B is thick with the past, the present and their uncertain future together. Too much time compressed into one space makes it difficult to breathe.

John thinks of Afghanistan, miles of empty sand in every direction. Distant drumming urges him forward. It is either bombs exploding, or someone's heart thumping under the sand, buried for its own protection. And Sherlock sitting there, like a mirage, a man who has always seemed so impossibly far away. John wants to reach out, to say things to him. _Are you in love with me Sherlock? Is this real?_

But to utter such words is dangerous. They may cause the vision to shimmer and disappear.

John shakes his head. He is not in Afghanistan. He is here, with Sherlock, miles of misunderstanding between them, and a chance to close the distance.

He imagines the question in his mind, the answer he wants, and his next move. If Sherlock says yes, then goddamn it, he is going to claim that heart for his own. If no, then...

But he already has his answer. Sherlock _is_ in love with him. He doesn't have to ask.

Just thinking about it has brought all the confirmation John needs. He watches Sherlock's expression evolve to one of wonder, eyes wide, lips parting slightly, as he helplessly deduces John's thoughts.

Damn that man. John quirks a rueful smile. At least this time, he was consenting.

He won't take Sherlock's answer from him unwilling, though, not by force or compulsion or a sense of things owed. As he continues his mental approach, the mirage solidifies into something real and beautiful and sustaining.

To survive this, all they have to do is move forward.

So, onward soldier. _Move._ Keep moving. John sees it all in his mind first, before he lifts an inch out of the chair. He envisions himself standing up and walking over to Sherlock, kneeling in front of him, leaning in for the embrace he is sure is waiting for him.

He rises up and crosses the battlefield.

John rests his head on Sherlock's chest, feels the drumbeat of a too human heart.

“Sherlock. I love you, Sherlock.”

The vial rolls to the floor. 

**Author's Note:**

> I keep imagining scenarios where John and Sherlock finally tell the truth to each other. If Gatiss and Moffat have not resolved this by the end of season 5, I shall declare this whole show a mistrial, and issue warrants for their arrest.


End file.
